


Vertigo

by Binaryoutliar



Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And a dildo, Atheism, Cocaine, Drug Use, Heavy Angst, Heroin, I Made Myself Cry, I've got Catholisism up my ass, M/M, Manhattan, New York City, Private School, Roman Catholicism, Suicidal Thoughts, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-08 08:09:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11077509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Binaryoutliar/pseuds/Binaryoutliar
Summary: “It is the little space between right and wrong where so many people get stuck.” My mother told me that when I was small enough to still sit on her lap and I think that she was right because I wouldn’t say that I’m a bad person, but I wouldn’t say that I’ve never done anything wrong either. What I do; well maybe it is illegal, but shooting people is illegal too and look how that works out. It is irrelevant whether or not I do it because I have to at this point – it has become less of recreation and more of a love affair. Turns out that my mother was stuck in the same place, playing limbo between angels and demons. Day by day, I have started to become the evil that she wades towards and she; the angel. It is the never ending circle that I must break and in doing so, I must walk away from my own demons and walk towards the light. I have been in the shadows for so long now, hiding behind ivy, believing that there is no place for me anywhere else. But now I can see it, the light, peeking through the leaves and vines. But to walk towards it, to touch it, takes more strength than I am sure I have alone.





	1. Volubilis

**Author's Note:**

> Before it comes up, yes, I am a recovering Cocaine addict. I started this over a year ago before I was in recovery so if you have any concerns about representation, don't worry - I've got it covered. Comments and suggestions are always appreciated, as well as any tags that you think need to be added for triggering content.

I have made it my habit to watch them leave every day. They are in perfect line of sight from my bedroom window- a not too big, not too small apartment across the street from a high school. Every day I watch hundreds of students file in and out of those iron gates, so well protected from the not so spectacular neighborhood that it is in. Inner city private schools are like that – filled with the smartest kids, but never me. I just get to watch, smoking a cigarette and leaning on my window sill like some sort of predator. 

I am the huntsman that they were warned about, the man that begs them for change on the corner or asks for a cigarette instead. Although I’d never have to stoop so low myself. You see me though, and you pair us together.

My hair is still damp when I run my hand through it, creating soft waves in the deep red tresses. I can barely stand the biting cold as it rips at my bare hands – my knuckles are dry and cracking, almost bloody. Perseverance is one thing I have mastered though, at least when it comes to smoking in the New York winter. It wears on my mind a little that there is nothing left for me to do than watch kids my own age do something that I never got the chance to. 

Something heavy hits the living room floor – a loud thump – and I hope to god it is the cat. My hair is no drier when I run my hands through it this time. I sigh in frustration and unease, ashing my cigarette and sticking it back between my lips, making my way towards the door. 

“Maman? Que toi?”

I wait a moment, praying for a response and when none comes, I have to intentionally slow my heart rate; it isn’t good for me when it gets too high. 

“Maman, etes toi d’accord?”

“Mail?” Her voice comes faintly from the living room. There is a moan on her lips somewhere, like she is in pain, which she probably is. I stub my cigarette on the doorframe and toss it into the trashcan, moving quickly towards the living room, breaking into a run. In only a few steps, I am beside her, helping her off the floor where she had fallen, splayed half way between the couch and the kitchen.

“Oh, Merci, Merci.” I lay her gently on the couch, making sure to tuck the blankets in around her. She looks tired – sickly. Smiling like the senile old coot that she is. Come to think of it, I can’t remember the last time I…

I stop my train of thought where it is.

“Maman,” My voice stops in its tracks. For a fleeting moment, I find my resolve to assist wavering. 

‘Be a good son.’ 

“Maman, Avez-vous faut d’aide?” 

“Tel un bon garcon.” 

“Oui…” I mutter, standing and walking towards the kitchen. I kneel down, pulling a box out from between the wall and the fridge. I carefully calculate the dosage in my head, pulling out a cup and emptying water from the tap into it, taking it across the island to my mother, laying timidly and sick on the couch of our one bedroom apartment. “Je sais.”

I shut my door, hearing the voices on the TV rattle about in the next room over. Kneeling down, I pick up a cigarette butt off the carpet and place it in a soda can that is sitting on my dresser. There is an ash stain from where I dropped it. I don’t care though- they are everywhere in this place. One more won’t make a difference. 

I meander back to the window, taking another cigarette out of the pack in my back pocket, leaning out the window, billowing smoke from my lungs into the biting winter air. From my pocket I also produce a gaming system – a Vita. It is a delicate balance, making sure not to drop it over the edge onto the fire escape below me. Everything is beautiful in this moment though, the world around me is quiet except for my rushing thoughts. In the world I have built for myself, there are no honking horns, no crying children. Everything is calm. Everything is perfect. 

But the people out there – they are together. They are single, by themselves, moving from one place to another without anyone by their side, but they are together. That is the beauty of Manhattan – a wild conglomerate of people that seem to have no connection and yet they may see eachother every day. They never know, they never care. Somehow,  
though, they understand that they are a part of something bigger, and they feed on that. Wear it like a shinky new pair of earrings. 

But I am alone. I am trapped like a bird in this cage of an apartment. I sit here and sing some sickly song because I am desperately lonely, though I struggle to admit it in the best of times. 

The true signs of loneliness are sometimes hard to spot – it isn’t as simple as having no one around. There is the empty feeling of having no one to even talk to, the search for something to give you meaning. To give you life – I think of my mother and her valium addiction. It is a frightening concept – losing her in some way to this obsession that has clearly gone too far. Oh but I am so much further…I think she may be more afraid of losing me than I am for her.

Will you pretend, mother, that you are not dying? Will I pretend, as your son, that I won’t die before you? 

Cut me a break please – I try hard enough as it is and I’m 18 anyway. I can make my own decisions, as poor as they might be.

Ah the moments of something less than lucidity. A chronic lack of knowing what is to come. In these moments, I don’t care about being “un bon garcon”. I care about solitude and my own helpless sense of loneliness which is actually real because I don’t remember the touch of a sober hand anymore. Not that I ask for that much – I want to hear my name said by someone who isn’t a drug dealer or a grocery clerk. I dream of lungs that, rather than smoke filled, are doused with the scent of a lover or perhaps the town where I was  
born – baking bread and sweet treats. The aroma of sunlight through the garden windows, as if that has one.

The language that my mother speaks in is the only thing I have from home to hold onto. Occasionally I will find myself latching onto those of us that seem to understand it, but they are far from the same because they still think that their way of living is the best way. But what about addiction and divorce is happiness? What about living in a dirty, dying city is appealing? There are houses is Honfleur with gardens and trees and fishermen that bring you fresh catch and markets where you know your food is honest. Does that sound like dying to you?

I am eloquent, yes, but does this sound like roses to you? Do my words paint walls of morning glories in the hillside in such vivid color as volubilis?

I heave a sigh and put my Vita back in my pocket, letting it drag the back of my pants down with it. Smoking yet another cigarette, I look back out to the school – it is about time for clubs to let out. The clouds are low today and they sky is grey, but the traffic is picking up which means that it is nearly 5. I am, admittedly, quite jealous of them and their monotonous lives. 

I do, on the one hand, know for a fact that I am stupid, or at least that is what I have been told. I am yet to attend American school, though I have learned their language well enough to buy what I need and make my way home. Pay the bills. Tell the people down the hall to shut their traps at 3am. I have learned Russian and Spanish and Hebrew and Chinese and I want to learn more but still I am 18 and have a middle school education. While I am not illiterate, I am stupid if not simply by assumption. So my jealousy perhaps stems from my incessant desire to be seen as otherwise. I will not, despite this, continue my education because I am 18 and literate and that is all you can ask for without a nagging sense of embarrassment. 

More than that though, I want to learn. So I teach myself, I think, walking over to my computer. I am sitting on my bed, my laptop leaning on my folded legs. There is a program open, housing software with a black screen. 

I am smart, I tell myself, and for a moment I believe it because I smile when “password accepted” appears in white text, written in between brackets and arrows. I won’t do anything – that would be wrong. I click back to a previous program, exiting out of a banking website and then a tracking code that I had programmed in earlier.  
I’m not that desperate. 

Oh but everything is turning grey. Everything is lackluster and pitiful – a pitfall of empty rocks of cocaine and meth and waxy buildup of heroin. 

The fresh taste of opiates is glistening on the corners of my mouth and I quickly shut my computer. There is an empty feeling, growing in the pit of my stomach where tea usually belongs. It reminds me of holding my father’s hand or playing with children my own age. I storm over to my window, looking outside – down at the streets with the hundreds of thousands of people. It is all so persistent, I think, pacing in circles around my room. My lip begins to bleed as my gnawing on it becomes more worried.

I will wait out the hunger, I tell myself, dutifully. I will wait for the pain to subside and the feeling of complete sobriety to wash over me. But the feeling of a hand on your cheek…the voice of a laughing child that looks like yourself. I look in the mirror and raise my hand to my eyes. There are circle like bruises around them. I look tired and unwell, sickly. The sounds of children laughing rings through my ears along with the sounds of church bells in the distance. A piano is playing somewhere far away. I look down at my legs and arms – my torso – unable to keep any weight on my body, not for lack of trying.

This is where tears come from. This is where the ringing in my ears becomes recognizable as the song of a funeral and everything that I fear in itself. I fear the sins for which I have suffered. I have paid for them in this life in my many sleepless nights and cotton fever dreams.

Forgive me father for I have sinned. Forgive me mother for I have failed you.

What a load of bullshit.


	2. Stoop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pain in his heart is crippling

For me, crying is an angry thing. It is something that comes about when you have been sober for one too many hours or one too many days and you want the rest of the world to suffer beside you. Crying is an angry thing – something that happens in the dead of night when your mother is sleeping and the couple in the apartment overhead is fighting. Crying is what the strong do, because they are unwilling to admit to the terrifying desires of their heart to give up. When strong people cry, it is because they are suffering unimaginable amounts of pain. When strong people cry they are asking for forgiveness from the people that broke them most.   
I am not strong, yet I cry – and for what? Nothing more than recognition. My tears are angry tears, also known as dry crying – when there is more sobbing than water and your throat is raw from screaming. My version of crying happens in the depths of night when you feel most alone because the last man you talked to was your drug dealer and my: what a dark night it is.

Crying is a simple thing that all humans do. But some do it more often that others and it seems to me that the ones that do it least are the ones that are asked what is wrong.

 

My pillow is wet and I am alone. Everything is cold all at once and there is nothing quite as dark as the feeling of being the only person awake at 2am. I am in the city that never sleeps but it seems that the entire world is tired at this very moment. I have never held a moment so silent in my hands as this one that is laying tender kisses on me right this second. There is no television on in the room next-door, nor is there a fight above. There are no cars outside my window, a usually busy corner of Manhattan. 

There is questionable sobriety flowing through my veins – a helpless sense of reality encroaching. Perhaps this is where the silence comes from – the gnawing feeling in my stomach that tells me to cry harder. I try to be silent because I am not strong and do not deserve the privilege of crying by myself. I cry ever harder because I am right and I bite my lip so that I don’t wail into the darkness. 

Everything is quiet now, everything is serenity at its finest except for the feeling of sadness that lingers about on the tailcoat of my high. The world is the fragrant aroma of the ocean waves, crashing into the sand and I am the hurricane to end them all. 

Have I forgotten what place I am at? Where I lie in wait for the evening of true tranquility? The world’s melody is resonating, singing inside of me and that is what makes me saddest because it sounds like people laughing and that is something that I am not yet a part of. It makes me feel the cold of my own dying embers of a flame never quite lit to its fullest potential.

I hold onto my pillow, burying my face in it because that seems safer than biting my lip. There are shakes running through me that wrack my entire frame and my hipbones ring in antagonizing pain as they thrust themselves into my mattress. 

I wrap myself in my blanket, ever loving warmth like a mother’s hug. All at once, the world is cold. All at once, everything is silent and growing darker as we speak. We cannot see through to the other side. We cannot face the day when we know what is coming in the night.

It is dark, it is cold, and everything is lonely. I feel emptiness beside me and I do nothing for a moment besides wish that there was someone in that place, to take me into them and do a lovers job – comfort. Instead, my own arms do the holding, as I try my hardest to keep myself from falling to pieces.

I am loveable, I tell myself, holding my body in two hands, watching as it falls through the cracks and gets lost in the wind. 

My pillow is wet and I am crying and my bedroom is dark and it is late. Briefly, I think to myself that I should take a walk and I realize, through all the turmoil dwelling inside of me, that perhaps that is a good idea. 

I drag myself up from my bed, tears drying on my cheeks where I have neglected to wipe them away. I am floating in a fog as my feet drag on the hardwood of my bedroom floor. I grab my coat from where it lies amongst my feet and wrap my scarf around my neck and pull my hat over my ears. 

It is New York in January – I have to prepare for the worst.

If I were still crying, my tears would have frozen to my face. But I have run dry which is just as good because crying in public is like getting hit by a car – what if I walked out into the middle of the road? What if the homeless men, sitting on park benches, were wrapped in coats like mine? I stole this though, which doesn’t really matter, all things considered.   
If I hadn’t, I would be cold like the homeless men or the girl who wears her skirt too short or that one asshole who wears shorts and flip-flops in the snow.

I am tired, walking through the streets of New York at some hour too late for me to be conscious. There is a woman – no a boy – sitting on the stoop of a smoke shop, a cell phone in his hand. 

I stop at his feet and he looks up. I am holding a cigarette out to him but his face looks repulsed like I am holding out a condom to a Mormon. He grimaces at me and looks back at his phone, typing away at it.

He has an iphone – a rich kid that is probably lost. He stands, pushing past me. I feel where he shoves me even after he is gone, the first touch from a real person that I have received in days. But then he is gone, like smoke in the evening air.

I lift the cigarette to my mouth and light it. My lungs fill with smoke and some part of me hopes that it stays there because it fills some empty part of me that can only be completed with tobacco or drugs – that is, when I can get them. 

My father should be sending me money soon. I’ll get a real fix then – not just a half assed valium high, taking what I can steal from my mother.

I look out at the intersection, counting the cars parked on the side of the road. There are a few taxis that pass by, people inside them leaning on the windows, tired in their sleepless nights. The prostitute walks past again, and I feel a temptation to grab her hand, just for the human contact. Some sense of soothing, human skin.

I wish I could see the stars tonight. I wish that I didn’t live in a city so big that the smog would cover them and instead would be replaced by the fluorescent glow of the skyline. I wish that angels were real – like they tell you as a child or when your parents tell you that birth marks are their kisses. If angels were real, my mother wouldn’t be gone in the mind like she so desperately is and my father would do more than send me money that is used to buy drugs.

If angels were real, these tears would stop and these maddening nights of sleeplessness would stop. Maybe I would be happier then, able to supplement my desire for a life outside of my birdcage for something more like a dream – exactly like one.

That boy was like a cherub, his touch still lingers on my skin like it is burning a hole in it – touched by his holy presence. His eyes were sapphires that had melted and become his soul and his hair was his halo – golden and pure. His touch is the melody of salvation in an otherwise silent night and as my head hits my pillow, tears come again when the cold hits me like a road block and I am reminded of my loneliness. 

Loneliness is irreversible trauma to the human heart. It is total bullshit, and likewise, it is the most painful thing you will ever experience as a human being. Living in a world that is utterly silent because no one speaks a lick of your tongue is the most perplexing thing and yet it is sobering because you could simply connect in English yet they don’t try, do they? I speak their language, yes, but have they tried to learn mine? Surely they could give it a go – it isn’t a particularly difficult one by all accounts. I don’t think though, that knowing the tongue in which I speak is what would bring my heart back from the ever looming darkness that it breaches. It is the knowledge that a person has given notice to me, like the boy on the stoop of the smoke shop, that nudged my shoulder as he passed, and despite the grimace that his face wore, I could tell that it was something much deeper rooted inside of him – not a hatred for me, but for the world. 

Perhaps he was lonely too.


	3. Willow Creek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Addiction is your favorite t-shirt

Addiction is sweet, like waking up to the songs of birds. It has the taste of sugar on the back of your tongue– when you lick your lips you taste just the traces of it, but still the desire for a full taste grows ever stronger. And you lick them again. And the taste is still there but weaker. And this continues until you are satisfied but you never are so it never ends until you decide that the taste of the sweetness is less than that of sobriety. This takes a strong man, someone who is willing to give up the love he has in order to obtain the love of others. Because addiction brings other things. Addiction breeds loneliness and sickness and the desire to get better but not the strength – never the strength. 

I can’t bring myself to look in the mirror these days. There are sunken cheeks where flesh once was and I can only imagine what that boy last night thought, seeing someone so young that looks so terribly, terribly old. People must know, I think, when they first see me. If not, give them time and they would know by the frazzled look that my brow tends to wear that I am something of an addict. 

I don’t like that word – I never have. There is a part of me that says “I can stop whenever I want”, but the truth is that somewhere deep down, I know that isn’t possible anymore. I break a sweat when I have to wait more than an hour for a fix since the cravings start – the free falling feeling in my stomach and the fever.

The shaking

The fear.

It isn’t just my imagination – swear to god it’s not – but there seems to be something familiar about laying in my bed, looking up at my ceiling with a contented smile on my face, listening to “Her Name is Calla”. I have grown used to this feeling of empty satisfaction – nothing more than that. It isn’t elation, it is almost a feeling of apathy that overwhelms me. The pleasant buzz of the music is soothing to my mind and I let myself wander around in it, getting lost, and suddenly there is another song playing, and it has been several hours. The clock is still blinking 4:22 in red numbers beside me but for some forsaken reason, I can’t find it in myself to do anything beyond close my eyes. 

I have been told before that I spend too much time living in my head, which may be true. I also know that it is dangerous, because the more time you spend there, the deeper you get and the harder it gets to remember the way out. Kind of like some sick sort of maze. I have been lost in my head for a long time now, I think. The lines of reality and my drug fueled haze have started to blend together and I start having trouble telling the two apart. 

The boy tonight though – he was real. I knew it because there was a fire in his eyes, sapphires glowing in a sea of nothingness. There was life there – not some empty hallucination. They reminded me, in that moment, of galaxies. When everything else around them is darkness, nothingness, they are there and worth so much more than the emptiness around them. Worth so much more than you.

Different people have different worth’s I suppose, and his must be more than mine, because right now, my eyes are the size of saucers but they are closed and the world seems untouchable – invisible to me. Everyone, it seems is worth more than me. 

These deep sort of thoughts seem to come and go a lot when I am at the peak of my high. Tonight, it seems, I am in one of those. It will be short but sweet and maybe in the morning I won’t have any cravings for any more of the succulent sweet juice that I use to fill my veins. Maybe, in the morning, there will be a life waiting for me outside of my bedroom or this apartment. Somewhere, I bet that boy it laying in his bed and thinking about the future that he has waiting for him. Somewhere, he has a life where he goes to school and rides the bus home and there is a mother waiting for him when he gets there.

I stand up, walking to my window, grabbing the pack of cigarettes from beside my bed. The window is already open, the biting wind coming through but I can’t tell because I’m too strung out to feel temperature at this point. The cigarette feels good between my lips and the taste is something new to add the sweet sensation that is running through my body. The sun is beginning to come up and there is a crest of light coming over the edge of the school across the street. 

The sun only ever sets behind me, never rises, and while I know that it has something to do with science and gravity, I really don’t care enough. To me, it only serves as a metaphor to how poorly thought out my life is. The light doesn’t love me, it only ever hides from my side of the world. But those that live on the outside of this cage – they are bathed in light. They are showered in sunshine and the world’s adoration. I am their secondhand addiction to the darkness that they willingly shroud themselves in – the angst of their teenage sons and daughters incarnate. I am the moth beside the butterflies and I am jealous.

I am jealous of the way in which they are allowed to spread their wings and unite the world, wrapped in their own beauty. If I were a butterfly, I think I would never land. 

“Une Papillion…un belle idee.”

The first bus pulls up to the school, and children begin to file off, some of them quite young – other are nearly my age. There are the few that walk alone, but continue with purpose because someone is undoubtedly waiting for them on the other side of those doors. Most of the children though, are with each other, and that is what school is really about. School is not for learning. School is for the continuation of our skills in a communication based society.

It is 7:30 and the bell has probably rung by now, because there are older kids, running towards the doors and hopping off their bikes, leaving them laying on the ground, unattended. 

Time passes and soon the grass in front of the school is empty. There are no students outside the front gate, smoking cigarettes like the delinquent children that they wish they were. And then, suddenly, like appearing straight from the clouds – dropping down from heaven itself – he is there. A slim boy on a red motorcycle that he parks in front of the school. He isn’t wearing a uniform, but he has a backpack with him. He takes his helmet off, shaking his blonde hair loosely. And then he becomes a cherub, meek and pale like the winters that I dream of. His eyes are sapphires, looking up towards my apartment window.

And the cherub scowls. 

I drop my cigarette from my lips, pausing with my mouth agape. The cigarette falls to the ground many floors below me and the blonde boy smirks with some kind of wrath that I don’t dare to understand. Yet something in it seems awry. Something about his cunning, daring smirk tells me that it isn’t a face that he wears with much conceit. It is a sick smile none the less – the kind that you give to dirty boys or criminals or people that willingly hurt innocent animals.

He wasn’t a cherub at all – he was a wolf in sheep’s clothing – that much was clear. But he was the boy from the night before. And something about the memory of his touch wandered back into the pit of my stomach and I was suddenly struck with a great feeling of mourning.

I was lying in bed when the doorbell rang, a video game sitting on the pause screen at the foot of my bed. Assuming that my mother would get it, I refused to move, continuing to bewail the loss of my pride. It wasn’t much of a turn of events if I were to be honest. But it had been years since I had longed so deeply for the contact of another human so badly. I seldom held the desire to speak to another person quite like I did for this cherub boy. Where was he from? How old was he? Did he have any siblings? Did he play Zelda?

All of these were very important in this moment. But I lamented the idea because, if I am truly truthful to myself, this is my cage and I am a bird. And I sing and sing but no one hears me so I sing some more so that this time, I can listen to it and feel the warmth of my own company. I never let people hold power over me – the only things that I willingly gave power over me to were my drugs, and I regretted that since the day I relinquished it.

This reminded me of the doorbell.

I stood from my bed, the carpet soft under my feet. My socks dragged the floor as I walked, trudging along through the tiny apartment. In the living room, my mother sat in her spot on the couch, a glass of wine beside her and a cigarette hanging loosely in her fingers. The television was on – some stupid soap opera that she didn’t understand anyway. I walked over to her, kneeling down so that I was at her level, placing my hand on her knee. 

“Avez-vous recu le mail?”

She continued to stare at the television, a content smile on her face. 

“Maman?”

“Oui…” she whispered. I sighed, bowing my head and closing my eyes. It seemed that she was already gone for the day. Looking up at the clock, I saw that it was barely noon – it was coming far too early these days. I stood, walking over to the table on uneasy legs. Anxiety was beginning to pool in my stomach as I searched through the pile of mail on the table, looking for a specific envelope from my father.

And it was there, waiting for me in a little blue envelope at the very bottom, signed in perfect script, with a decorative stamp in the corner. Inside, there was a blank white card and tucked inside it - 5 one hundred dollar bills. Tax-less income – that is what they call this. But it only happens twice a month and that is barely enough to support my habits these days. It isn’t something that I would get a refund for anyway.

I put the money in my pocket and wander back towards my room, stopping to kiss my mother on the top of her head. She hums happily to herself, continuing to watch her daytime television and I stalk back to my bedroom, head down, shoulders slumped, hiding the money from her view. 

My computer is open beside my bed, a blank white screensaver with several icons glaring from the left side. My dealer is a click away, easily contactable. But there is a simpler way of getting to him - a route that few feel comfortable enough taking towards him. A more direct approach.

I put on my coat and scarf, slipping a pair of gloves onto my hands and stuffing them and my money into my pockets. My window is open, but it slips my mind and I leave my room in a hurry, running past my mother and out the front door, grabbing a pair of house keys on my way out. 

There are no elevators in our complex but we are on a high enough floor that climbing the stairs takes quite a bit out of me. Going down is a bit easier, but still tiring in some respect. I pass a man in the stairwell of the third floor, wearing a black fedora and a trench coat. His presence is intrusive and I pick up my pace even more, looking over my shoulder to ensure that he has continued. 

He is unfamiliar and that is what scares me most.

I pull open the door at the bottom of the stairs and a gust of wind hits me, breaking the warmth of my body into a million pieces. There is a chill that touches me in to the bone, that wracks my soul and I know it will take me hours to overcome. I could easily run back inside – hide away in my room like I do every other day of my life, but I finger the hundred dollar bills in my pocket and continue forwards. 

There were business men on every side of me as I walked down the street, presumably on their break for lunch. That was something that I often forgot – the normal habits of the average person. I was 18 now, yet I didn’t have a job. I didn’t go to school. I was practically unavailable for hire due to my blatant inability to pass a drugs test, let alone my severe lack of social skills. 

I turned down an ally way, one of the ones with the neon signs and broken bottles lining the wall. There is a door – a wooden door with a small window at the top and bars over the glass. It is before their opening time, but I open the door anyway to a dimly lit bar. There is a girl standing at the bar, polishing glasses with a rag. She is smiling, especially at me. She waves, and I wave back, rubbing my hands together to warm them. Her name is Linda, and she has known me for as long as I care to remember. She is a sweet girl from somewhere in Asia I believe. Maybe Belgium though, since she speaks fluent French though she denies being from Europe.

I continue towards a door at the back of the seating area, knocking twice before opening it. There is a man sitting at a desk with a tub of ice cream, feet propped up on his desk, watching an episode of “Archer” on the television in the corner. His name is Kit. He is my dealer. He is 26 and one of the most immature people I’ve ever met. But we’ve known each other almost as long as I’ve known who I was and he is a trustworthy, honest man.

“Matthew, it’s been a while.” He says, not bothering to look away from the television. He likes to call me Matthew or Matt more than use my birth name. Not that I mind. I like anonymity; it is a safe, sacred thing, especially in this city. 

Kit continues to watch the television in a way that reminds me of my mother- fixated. Taking another step in, I close the door behind myself, listening to it click softly behind me. I move forward, sitting on the edge of his desk, resting my elbows on my knees. There is no tension here, just a friendly feeling of contentment. 

“How you been, bud?” He calls be bud sometimes too. Like I am a child. He knows that I’m not but he does it anyway- sometimes I think he does it just to spite me.

“Been alright.” The words taste bitter on my tongue – not because I know they are a lie, but because they are the first bit of English that I seem to have spoken in quite a while. 

Speaking English is like chewing on a lemon – sour, yet oddly satisfying. Kit clicks the television off and turns to his ice cream, shoveling another spoonful into his mouth. 

“So,” he starts. “Wha’cha looking for today?”

“Wha’cha got?”

“Take it you want boy?” We both laugh – him, at his own joke, and me, because I know what he is implying. “Well I’ve got a Goma that is pretty killer, but that depends on what you are looking to spend. You’d be looking at 130 a gram.”

“What would you do for $500?” Kit stops eating, puts his tub down and looks at his hands in a state of deep contemplation. 

“You’re looking at some real shit coming up, Bud.”

“I’m just dipping a little deeper, Kit. Chill.”

“Well for you, Matty, I’d give it to you free if I could. But today...for $500... A quarter.”

I sigh in deep relief- Kit was cutting me a huge deal. Despite this, he still looks mournful. Of course he is though – I am like his kid brother, if nothing else. For him, seeing me spiral downwards is like me watching my mother sit in the living room night and day – like the feeling of having to tuck your own mother into bed on a couch that is threadbare and sunken in from where she has become a part of it. It bruises your heart – this world that I have become so accustomed to. 

Kit slides a very full bag over to me – it is like looking a criminal offense in the eyes – this heroin that I am facing now, looking at it with fear and love and loathing. It isn’t the only thing that I feel, boring into my soul. I can feel the addiction and the years in prison that both Kit and I have lining our years ahead. This is why I don’t get close to people – this is why I don’t attend school. Because if people knew – that could be a whole other can of worms. 

I take the bag and pocket it, not saying anything. The air is much thicker than it was before, sickeningly so. 

“See ya later, Bud.” He says as I leave the room. 

I shut the door behind myself, looking at the grey New York sky. It is winter, it is cold, and I feel trapped within these tall, wandering buildings. They are filled to the brim with tired and sad business men that hate their lives and the homes are filled with sad and tired wives that hate their lives as well. And here I am. Lonely and retreating to my birdcage, the only place where I belong.


	4. Adrenaline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are few things better than a fresh fix and one of them is the sound of his voice.

That moment was peaceful. The moment when I shot up was tranquility in its truest form, like the round breast of a mother only more succulently tender when it kisses your skin. When I looked at the clock it was 7:30, just after dinner, though that was something I had long since foregone. It was dark outside, as the chill of winter would have foretold, but my window was open, letting the wind take me away with it, through the city scrappers. I was flying through the sky line, drifting on a cloud that somehow felt so solid and so warm. It was hugging me back, like a mother would have- should have. 

I tried not to have too many thoughts like that.

The world was filled with magic tonight and my bed seemed like such a solid, safe place. It was the feeling of lying in a bed of diamonds. It was pristine clarity of the future unforetold and not having to wonder or worry. Not having to question. I was fighting off some sort of demon with a sword tonight – protecting my bed of jewels and everything it seemed to mean to me. 

Standing, I walked towards my open window, my legs light as the cloud I was floating on. I leaned out over my window-sill, letting tiny flakes of snow fall like glitter in my hair and breathed in the scent of the winter night. Looking out across the night sky, the building’s light giving me little hope for the stars to be seen, I felt a sense of being tiny. What are we in this world, other than tiny, meaningless beings? We are inconsequential and so are our choices. So if we fuck up, is it really that big of a deal? So what if I’m a degenerate? So what if I haven’t an education – I’m still smarter than the lot of them. 

I was suddenly aware of a blaring siren racing towards me, the lights of a police car offensively bright to my eyes. The blindingly loud sound of a revving motorcycle engine roared to life somewhere nearby and I could feel it, penetrating my chest. Leaning back inside, I shut the window tightly, pulling the curtains closed behind me. My breath flowed evenly through my lungs and out my mouth, a soft puff of white coming with each turn. Unbeknownst to me, my room was frigidly cold on the regular. Something in me felt tight though, a quill of anxiety rising and falling in my stomach, scratching my innards. 

Not bothering with a coat this time, I grabbed my house key from my dresser, moving swiftly through the living room and shutting the rotting wood of our front door behind me. There was no strange man standing in the stairway this time and I hurried on my way out of the complex, my boots crunching in the freshly falling snow. There was now a solid inch on the ground, sticking to the streets. I walked quickly along the sidewalk, head down, not paying too much attention to the people that I passed, not entirely sure where I was going. But there was something about the glowing anxiety that was passing in my stomach that told me to keep moving. 

I stood at the cross section of 3rd and 11th, just outside the AMC movie theatre. The sound of the siren still rang in the distance, yet it didn’t seem to get further away, only closer or at the same distance – like it was going in circles. There were no cars coming and the light turned green and a bird chirped. Stepping out into the street, I was suddenly hit with a ton of bricks as a streak of bright red flashed in front of me, taking me by surprise as I fell backwards into the snow. The person on the bike stopped, looking back at me through their helmet visor. They were small, with tight clothes and a hefty but streamline leather jacket. Their sports bike leaned to the side as he turned to speak. 

“You okay?” A deep voice questioned. It was hastened though, as they began to look back, lifting their visor. Flashing lights were moving in our direction and the two of us stared at them for a moment. They were stuck in the thick of the New York traffic, even as cars tried to move out of their way. The sirens though…they were so invasive, unpleasant… 

“Fucking hell. Just get up already, I don’t have time for this!” The man screamed, deep but somehow unthreatening, a slight waver in his voice where you could tell there had once been a strong accent. I remained seated on the ground, somewhat shell shocked and still a little high. 

“Je suis bien…” I muttered, voice small and shaking. He turned back to the road, pushing the visor back into place.

“Great.” The bike revved back to life and he was suddenly hurrying onwards as the cop car moved ever closer and, soon enough, passed me altogether. 

I stood, brushing the snow off the back of my pants and turned back in the direction that I had come from. My eyelids fluttered clumsily as I walked, feigning sleep.

It had been the angry cherub boy from the other night – I was sure of it. What he was doing, racing away from the cops on a motorbike – a nice one at that – in the middle of the night, I couldn’t be sure. But I was sure now that he was a boy – no, a man. The depth of his voice told me that much. Though he must still be in high school, as his arrival this morning at Grace Church would suggest. 

He was so swift on his bike, a chariot – he knew how to maneuver it through the crowded streets, regardless of the visual impairment of the night. He was like wind –wild and free and something that the sort of bird that I am can only dream of flying alongside. Even the sense of freedom that being amongst people brings has its downfalls.

I am separate from them; alone in my own head and that is somewhere that no one else can penetrate. The world is akin to the bittersweet scent of coffee and sharp as the feeling of gin running down a dry throat. It lives in harmony in this capitalist society that we call a democracy. It is my sacred security of a bedroom – the door to my apartment locked yet my window open. It is freedom from society that brings me a sense of solace at night when the only thing wracking my brain is my desire for a fix.

There was a man, standing in front of the stairwell, when I returned home. He was the same man as the day before, I believe; he was dressed in the same jacket and hat, standing solemnly in the darkness. His eyes are on me – I feel them when I walk past and I can still feel them when I open the door, just to his right. He is watching, waiting for me to look directly at him – I can feel it somewhere in my soul. But he stands there, a sliver of a smile poking up over the brim of his coat. 

What a happy smile, I think, climbing the stairs to my apartment.

 

I shut and lock the door behind me, unaware of the pounding of my own heart as it moves its way into my throat. Despite the random encounter in front of the building, I cannot deny that the gaze the man set on me was anything but threatening. It was like the look of a father, looking at their child while they make yet another reckless move. Perhaps that was accurate – I was a young adult now, making the decisions of a lifetime – but who was this man to tell me that, even with his warranted gaze. 

I couldn’t comprehend the state of my emotions in that moment – searching for them was like searching for something so far out of reach that it wasn’t even real anymore. What was fear anyways, other than the beating of our own hearts? Our imaginations running wild, taking reality away from what it truly is – what is in front of us. We create a reality in our own minds, and that is where we live. Where everything tends to lean in our favor, to make ourselves look like the hero…sometimes the victim. 

I live, full time in my own head, waiting for the rush of satisfaction – of the touch of someone who isn’t there to judge, only to hold my hand. Perhaps, I think, that is what will break me out of the solidarity of my own mind – the presence of another person, standing beside me with no ulterior motives. I imagine that to be something like what a friend must be like. 

I’ve never had one of those – a friend. For as long as I can remember, I have been living in solitary confinement, an unknown prison set on the rooftop across from the people’s haven – their church. 

I thought then, of the boy, riding away on his motorbike. I knew a lot about him, it seemed. He didn’t smoke, and he was – evidently – religious. More specifically, Episcopal. He obviously liked the color red probably as much as he liked his clothes tight, and he was involved in some sort of activity that would require police involvement. I knew he was foreign, though more assimilated than I was.

I wondered, did this make him my friend? If I knew so much about him – more than I had ever known about anyone in all faith, did this mean we were connected? And what did he know about me? Did he see me, watching him from my window, and know that I spent my days wishing I were in school? Did he hear my voice and know I spoke as many languages as I did? When I offered him a cigarette, was that a heads up to him that there was more? There was no connection if it was just one sided, but I doubted it was. So if he was the cherub boy, what did that make me in his eyes?

I pushed aside the curtains of my window, laying a hand on the glass pane and feeling for the cold brushes of winter. There was snow, lining the rim and I sighed in contentment. Winter was finally showing itself, collecting my soul from the sun’s rays and causing utter contentment. I liked the winter because it reminded me of home, high in the western Alps. There wasn’t a dollar I wouldn’t give – no amount of drugs you could give me that would be better than home. As drugs hung like a carrot in front of me, the reward has always been out of reach.

A knock pattered itself against our door as someone rappeded pleasantly. I shot upright off the window and looked towards my open door. The floorboards creaked when I walked on them, tiptoeing towards the door. I unlocked it, keeping the chain on, and kept by back to it, making sure to stay out of range of the crack. The door opened with a click and I peered around the corner. There was an elderly man, wearing a trench coat and holding a hat to his chest.

“Good evening, Mail.” He said in perfect French, bowing his head to me, looking up at me through silver crescent eyes. I looked back, eyes equally as narrowed. The man from earlier.

“Oh, I do apologize.” He stood upright again, fixing his hat on his head. “You prefer to be called Matt, isn’t that right?” Head tilting to the side, he looked at me through a father’s eyes, someone that knows the seas like the back of their hands and is knowledgeable beyond your dreams. Wiser than you or I.

“May I come in?”

Shaking my head rapidly, I began to close the door, stopped by a foot that had narrowly found its way in.

“I see we are a wee bit skittish this evening. Perhaps some tea would help the both of us.” He moved to my level, having been slightly taller than myself. 

“My treat, Matt.”

 

“Are you at all peckish?” He asked, still in French, as I peered into the pastry case of a local café. 

I said no, despite my obvious ravenous cravings for such a treat. 

“It is not a personal failure,” he started, waving over a barista. He pointed to a berry tart and motioned for one. “To eat.” He passed it to me before heading towards a table by the   
windows. There were still plenty of people walking the streets and he watched them with unwavering interest for the longest time. And while he watched them, he too was being watched. I took in everything from the designer printed on the collar of his coat, to the thickness of the glasses perched atop his nose. 

“Humans, Matt, are very fascinating, are they not?” The silver of his old eyes penetrated my soul, smiling at me through the little sliver that shone through. 

“I suppose.” I said, words thick with my accent as well as berry tart.

“You watch people a lot, Matt?” 

“I mean, ya I guess.” I took another bite of the pastry. “When I get the chance…Mostly students.”

“Do you know a boy named Mihael, Matt?” 

Looking down at my plate, I whispered “I don’t know their names…”

“How’s about I describe him for you, ya?” I shrugged. “Well, he is a bit shorter than you, Matt. And he rides a red motorbike with a black helmet. Do you know anyone like him, Matt?”

Ah yes, I thought; the cherub boy. What a befitting name – the name of an angel himself. 

“Ah, so you do?” The tart suddenly felt very heavy in my stomach and the air around my head somehow felt thicker. I looked through the glass table at my toes, wiggling inside my worn out sneakers. “Mihael is a very smart boy, did you know that? You are very smart too, Matt. Tell me, what do you know about Mihael?”

“He doesn’t smoke…” I muttered under my breath. “And there were cops…”

“How do you feel about cops, Matt?”

“I don’t like them.” The berry tart had started to look foul to me. I pushed it aside, instead grabbing for the cooling cup of tea before me. “They are mean. To me and the other people like me.”

“Do you not think you deserve it?”

“We are all human.” I took a sip of my tea. “And if a police man thinks he can take me, I’ll fight him with my own two hands.” I put my fists up, showing that I was ready to fight.   
The old man laughed lightly, the edge of his smile tickling his thick, white moustache. 

“Such a spirit. Say, have you ever been to school, Matt?”

“Don’t need to.”

“Why not?”

“Because; I am smart anyway.”

“What about special schools, Matt?” The elderly man leaned back, gesturing to the space above his head with his hands. “Mihael once attended an exceedingly spectacular school.   
Matt,” He leaned forwards. “My school, would be happy to have you.”

“I think you are mistaken, sir.” I stood, pushing my seat back. “I am not the type of person you want at your school.” The elderly man stood too, reaching a hand out to shake. I   
took it, two pumps, and then released. 

“We are a very special school, Matt. And I think you will find that we are able to prepare you for things you couldn’t ever imagine. I do hope you reconsider.” He passed a card to me, bowing at the hips. Taking it from his grasp, I shoved it quickly in my pocket.

“Thank you, sir.” 

And I left.


	5. He Believes in Jesus

We are asleep for most of our lives, alone in the dark trellises of our minds. We are like an unborn fetus – barely alive in our own bodies that we inhabit day in and day out. Our souls become so tired of wandering when we are alone like this. One day our consciousness fails us as children and we are left, drifting in the abyss. We have lost our image of the world – we have lost all sense of imagination and the bliss that comes with naivety. When I was a child, I dreamed that I would go to heaven. I have my doubts about that these days, though my actions have yet to show what I cannot comprehend changing. Perhaps, I think, hell won’t be too bad. I imagine, as someone from a country filled with mountains and walls alike, that hell can’t be much worse than Florida. I digress though – I hope that one day in my life, there will be someone that can pull me out of such darkness and help me in my endeavors. I wish to die one day so that I can be with my Father – the only one that has ever truly loved me. As the devout, we work only towards the end – what a load of bullshit. It is what we do in our lives that truly matters. 

I wake with a start, staring at my ceiling as my breath catches in my throat. My body ached with tremors that had come in my sleep – relentless and overpowering, they had somehow managed to wake me. I found myself lost in a daydream of the human condition. What was that melancholy voice that sung in my dreams? Who did it belong to - whose voice had I become so accustomed to that it would permeate my own dreams? It sounded like the voice of an angel, chastising their own nature, repenting for their own sins – as if that voice itself had spoken the words of Paradise Lost. If I were ever to fall for a trap like that, should I be so blessed by the gods of whom I suspect there are none, would I ever repent? 

Would I repent these drugs that course through my veins? Would I look to the sky, cry out, and ask for sobriety?

I didn’t think so. Then again, that might be my own foolish thinking and my concrete belief in there being no god. God was that which shamed men who would otherwise be proud – brings them down and makes them believe that, without him, their lives are meaningless. There is no less peace with god than without. God has not created peace, only war. 

That which tears my home apart at the best of times, which brought my own country to their knees so many years ago. God is shame in its finest form.

Believing in such a thing as god only proves, without a doubt, that we, as humans, are weak. Why work for something that you only get in death, and even then, have no guarantee of?

What of the cherub boy though? Did he live his life, thinking that there was something waiting for him on the other side? Or was that, in fact, his voice that pervaded my dreams? I couldn’t for my life think of another human whom I knew that would hold something like a god so dear. Maybe drugs, but not god. Not even human held their faith – obviously none of them were so stupid as to put their faith in something that they couldn’t hold in their own hands, feel in their own bodies. Science; we believed in science. But the cherub boy was different. He wore his uniform with pride yet rode a bike like satan himself. Is this what caused him to question his fortune – his fate? That is, if I can trust my own dreams to be true, and not simply some drug fueled fantasy. 

I wanted to fall back asleep, forget the painful words that made me question my own humanity. But humanity is so very rare in this day and age, and something that I have so very little of. 

That is what drugs had become to me – that was my reasoning for my addiction – it gave me an unwavering sense of humanity. Because humans, despite the flawed logic, are the only animals in this world that can struggle with such a thing and that just proved to me that I was no monster.

I rolled over in my bed, my body aching in all the wrong places, and looked towards my bedroom door, slightly ajar. I could see the reflection of the television screen bouncing off the walls. I didn’t want to sleep, but to let the sickness wash over me. I couldn’t think of anything more desirable than wallowing in my own self-pity and hatred at this very moment. Something so sickeningly sweet as addiction can only be allowed to live in the saddest of people – those of us that have no taste for food or the love of another human being. But I think to myself, that should I one day obtain the love of another – should I trust someone so much – would I allow myself, my addiction, everything that I knew about who I was as a human being, and for that matter my own humanity – would I allow them to take that from me? Would I succumb to the populous and side with them for the first time in many years – too many years?

Would I say the same as the cherub boy – that I would like my love to wash away my sins? What of him though? Why was it that he was so deeply engrained in my mind? I think there is a subconscious attraction in my own deep, heart, for those of the world that have more strength than I do. Strength to keep going, a feeling of stronger humanity than that of my own. 

How pathetic is it, that this boy has ridden my mind so dry of anything other than these hopeless, helpless feelings of worthlessness?

I get out of bed, wriggling my toes on the ground, testing them to make sure they still work. I am dressed in full clothing, no covers, having fallen asleep on accident, most likely. I   
wondered, if I were to walk the streets, whom I would happen upon. And should it be the cherub boy, what it is I should say to him. I walked down the stairwell to my apartment complex, thinking to myself what course I would take today, and choosing the one that went by the tobacco shop which, judging by the hour, would still be open.

And there he was, sitting on the stoop of the store, waiting for something, watching his motorbike, parked on the sidewalk beside him. I stood before him for just a moment, waiting for him to notice me. Slowly, he looked up at me, breaking contact with the deep red of his bike in exchange for that of my own self. He looked ragged tonight, barely alive even, and I thought back to the chase from before. His eyes were locked onto mine – barely even blue, so close to white.

“Do you believe in god?” I asked him, blank faced and monotonous.

“Yes.”

“And do humans determine sin, or does god?”

“God.”

“Then why does my father call me a sinner, and the pope believe I am only human?”

He cocked his head to the side, searching my face for some sort of emotion. But I didn’t have it in me, not now, not after all the thoughts that were swirling around in my own   
head. 

“There is no easy answer.” He said after a long pause, trailing off as he finished. 

“It is not you or I that determines sin.” His voice, thick and deep, whispered into the wind. “But those who think that they can speak God’s name with their vices hanging before them. They wish to strike out your sin - my sin - with their own and therefore create for themselves a good name.” 

I sat down beside him on the step, looking out over the street.

“They are so very wrong, Matthew.” My head jerked in his direction at the sound of my own name – my preferred name. He looked, too, at me, holding my gaze with his pearly eyes. In perfect French, his voice chimed like a bell, like a cathedral in my hometown. A church holding mass. I looked at the rosary around his neck.

“We are not alone in our search for our humanity, but instead we look in all the wrong places. Like that cigarette that you hold in your hand while you watch school children and wish you were them. In the petty things we all do, looking for our purpose.”

“Mihael is not French…” I say, looking down at the cement, having to break away from the all-seeing eyes of this wondrous boy.

He pauses. “I go by Mello.”

“Mello, why were you running from police?”

He too stared down at the sidewalk and I looked to him, watching. I wait patiently for a response, watching as he bites the inside of his cheek.

“I will not die a dog’s death.” He whispers, letting it float away in the wind once again. His hair flows effortlessly around him like a halo, drifting in the winter wind. There was snow on the ground, left over from the night before. 

“How did you know my name?” I ask, kicking at the snow with my boots. “Or did that man tell you?”

“What man?” There is an energy in his voice now, but along with that - a certain level of hesitance. He began to bite at the edge of his thumb when I paused, searching for the details in my disheveled mind. 

“He was elderly…with a thick moustache…and a long Chanel coat.”

“He did not.” This time he spoke in English, despite the ease that it would have taken for him to speak in French, in which he was obviously fluent. He looks to me now, Mello does, and searches my eyes with great desperation. “Did he mention me?”

I nod slowly in return, not breaking his gaze. 

“And did he mention…anyone else?” It takes a moment for me to process his English, but I return with a shake of my head, confused and dazzled by the iridescence that his eyes hold in the moonlight. He looks at me with his striking blue eyes, the light of the moon dancing in them, creating a reflection of my own face in them.

They are different now than they were before- there is not the same condemnation floating in them as there has been in our encounters past. Instead he looks at me like I am something curious, something gentle and loveable. Imagine that…it is hard but there it is, dancing amongst his gaze. 

“I wonder…” he mutters, voice deep as sinister chocolate. He looks at the pavement then back to me. “How you would fit in with them…”

“With who?”

“…No one…You know, I see you, sitting up in your room, smoking those horrid things. You just sit there and watch me and the other people that walk down this street. Don’t you want to join us? Don’t you want to experience life? You have no knowledge of the way people work – no sense of worth left to cling to.”

“You are wrong.” I shout into the night, fists clenched on my lap. “Just because I don’t wear that stupid rosary around my neck like you do… But my name is Mail Jeevas. My parents gave me that name and while I have my qualms, quirks, and vices, I am still just as human as you are.”

Mello, the cherub boy, is quite now, looking up into the smog filled and cloudy night sky. There are no stars that you can see in this city. There are fewer people than usual that walk the streets. There are no eyes on us – the safety of anonymity. Life is peaceful for a moment – everything is so perfect for just that second before he speaks again. 

“We are only proved human when we die.” 

 

I laid in my bed that night, contemplating the ceiling and mortality and the blue gems, captured by Mello’s eyes. He somehow held all of the answers to life’s questions; an angel in the flesh. Yet there was the undeniable feeling that he had more secrets than even I couldn’t imagine. First, the pitiful voice that he spoke in when asking questions about the elderly man that had paid me a visit. He was lost; he was somewhere in this human world where he didn’t belong. He was too beautiful for all these people, too pure for the truths of humanity. And archangel sent down to Earth as punishment for an atrocious crime that he did not commit.

Standing, I walked towards the window, grabbing my cigarettes from the table and bringing one to my lips, lighting it and breathing in the nicotine strength that it provided. The people bellow me continued to mill about, despite the late hour. I looked out at Grace Church School, just across the street. The school that Mello went to.

He was right – there was a place, not so deep inside me, that wanted desperately to be a part of that. To be a part of the world that the rest of these city dwellers were living in. 

And in all honesty, what kept me from joining them? I had long since used my language barrier as a defense, but that wasn’t it. Looking down at my bare arms, at the needle tracks, at my eyes and their pin point pupils, I was reminded that, yes, I had a very good reason. But would it not be as simple as to, one day, leave the house and walk into school and sit in the back of a classroom? Wouldn’t it be so easy as to attend a math class and read their English books and continue my lifestyle but surrounded by people, never the wiser towards what I do outside of school? 

I was so distant from the world that I survived in – because to say that I lived in it would be a lie – I did no such thing. I was simply sitting on the recesses of society. Mello had known that. He had the clear understanding that I was not a part of humanity, only a bystander in the world that we were barely a part of. 

I clutched at my chest as tears came streaming towards the edges of my eyes. Alone – I was completely alone in this situation, surrounded by people that couldn’t for the life of them see that I was dying in one way or another.


	6. He Takes A Hit To Fight His Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heavy description of drug use in this chapter - if needles freak you out, just be forewarned.

The morning when I walked into the classroom of chattering students, I was shell shocked. I couldn’t for the life of me remember any of the English words that I had learned, even though there were quite a few – probably as many as I knew in French. But there were so many people and they were all staring at me and gesturing towards their hair like they hadn’t ever seen a ginger before. And then he was there too, sitting in the back corner with his head down, reading a book – the pages were like tracing paper and golden as he turned them, never bothering to look up to see what all the commotion was about. He was blissfully unaware I believed. It seemed to me that he existed in a sort of self-entitled autonomous state: “I am different”, “I am better; worthy”. 

I would soon know better than to assume such things. 

In my own self entitled existence, I had taken a step forward, towards being human. I had shot up this morning too, before coming, because I wasn’t sure if I could face this sort of societal interaction by myself. So now I stood at the front of the class, saying my name with some sort of cattycornered skepticism about the whole thing and not wanting to sit in my seat because it was right in front of Mello, the cherub boy. While I stood in the front of the room, he kept his head down, reading his book, until the bell rang and he closed it with solemn satisfaction glistening on his face. It was a bible, I noticed, written in Latin by the looks of it. 

I walked the aisle towards him, no bag to speak of that should theoretically be on my back; just a book in my arms and a messenger bag at my hips. There were questions to be asked at this point – what was I doing here? Had I made a horribly wrong decision? 

There was a tap on my shoulder – I turned around to see the cherub boy, holding out a pencil to me.

“You can keep it if you want.” I took it dutifully and turned back to the front of the room where the teacher had begun her lesson, but then again, I heard his voice.

“It is none of my business, but why are you here?”

“You’re right, that isn’t any of your business.”

“It is funny though,” I hear the repeated clicking of a pen. “That a boy who seems to never leave his room except to buy cigarettes, would suddenly start attending school shorty after a questionable interaction with a strange old man. You wouldn’t say that it strikes you as odd?”

Yes, I thought, it was true that it was a bit odd, but should that really matter to him? Mihael…was such a strange boy. But perhaps that wasn’t enough of a description. He wasn’t timid – he was forthcoming and wild and liked to make the first move. He liked to make the last move too. But what struck me as impedingly odd, was the fact that someone like him would put so much stock into something that they could not feel. He believed with all of his strength that he would one day be saved, and then what?

I looked back to see his eyes so deeply connected with my own, but were mine really there? Was I REALLY there, or was I floating in some distant recess of my own mind? He was an angel and I was the storm, the future of humanity after the end. But in his eyes, there seemed to be a future, resting on his drifting black lashes that were in such contrast with his bright blonde hair and strikingly blue eyes. I wanted to be held by them, assured that I was to see another day.

I had no idea what the teacher was talking about by the time I turned around to the front of the classroom. She was merely an entity, just in her own respect but not something that I was interested in at the moment. I was interested in Mello – in his continued state of humanity, one that it seemed he was born with – felt no need to obtain or justify. That he had been born with some sort of inherent worth that had evaded me. My humanity was something that I had to grasp at, like strings or the tentacles of a jellyfish – dangerous. Someone would have to be either crazy or sick with some sort of strange illness to want the kind of humanity that I seek out – perhaps then I was one of those. But which would I be? I think that I am sick. I think that I have some sort of illness that drags me towards my addiction. That sickness, I believe, is called depression. Was that the same sickness that drove people towards their belief in a god? Did Mello and I exist in the same plane?

I caught up with the teachers words then; she was reciting verses of the bible. Sneaking a peak behind myself, I noticed the look on Mello’s face – a level of peace that I, myself, had never known. Pure loving adoration – no knowledge of sin, or perhaps, a knowledge too deep. I thought back to that night – the cherub boy on a red motorbike, running at high speed from the cops on a busy street in New York. He was the most magical thing that I knew of besides drugs, and the more I thought about it, the more desperately I wanted to be a part of that. 

I wanted to be a part of the person that believed so strongly in love – that loved something so much despite other’s words and no obvious proof of its existence. That was real strength.

 

The day ended without incident, although I would say that I had never sat still for quite so long and I found it exceedingly difficult. I was tired as well, for the first time in a while it seemed. While I slept often, this was a sort of genuine exhaustion that only seemed to hit me when I spent a day actually doing work. 

I made my way towards the door, the last person left in the room. But outside, I could see the arm of a student in the window. Upon exiting, I found it to be Mello, arms crossed and propped on the wall. 

“What I asked you earlier,” he started. “What I meant was, why this school?”

I paused, looking at the boy in a dress shirt and khakis. Looking prim and proper, as compared to the leather attire that he usually donned. He looked downtrodden as well, ridden with some sort of concern or guilt. Staring at the floor, he began to kick at the hardwoods with his expensive looking boots. 

“I’m not interested in God. On the contrary, it’s you that I happen to find interesting.” He stopped scuffing the tip of his shoe then, looking up towards me with the same level of skepticism that I wore at the start of the day. 

“You think I’m interesting?” There was so much wonder in his voice at that moment. It was like looking into the eyes of a child, so willing to accept rejection. 

I struggled to manifest a voice from my body, but the one that came continued to be meek and weary. 

“Yes.” I managed to say. “In fact, I think you are very interesting.”

“You don’t understand people very well, do you?”

“Not really.” I hugged my laptop towards my body, ashamed in my own lack of human interaction. 

“Hmp.” He smirked, tugging at the corner of his mouth as if he were going to smile but then faltering. Yet his features were soft – friendly even. “That’s good – I don’t either.” It seemed to me though that his social skills were far beyond mine – how could someone be so impossibly, inhumanly intriguing? 

“I’m sorry…by the way.” I looked into his face, confused. “For knocking you over with my bike the other night.”

“It’s okay…” I whispered, looking back down at my feet. I wanted to tell him that he was beautiful; that he was amazing and that he could hit me with his motorbike again if it   
meant that I got to speak with him. 

“You know,” I started. “I’ve always wanted to ride one.” Looking up through my lashes, I saw the crack of a true smile at the corner of the other boy’s mouth and I thought for a moment that angels were about to sing. 

“I don’t have an extra helmet, you know. But if you hold on tight, I promise to be careful.”

I jingled my keys in my pocket, thinking of what I could be doing instead – going home and doing another hit. But that would be antisocial – counterproductive even, because it seemed that I was going in some sort of new direction. I jingled my keys again, thinking of the small vile attached to them, thinking that I could just go and hit in the school bathroom. Really, I wasn’t above that at this point in my life, but on my first day? Wouldn’t hurt to try. 

“Ya….” I too smiled then, gaze still downcast. “Do you think you could wait for me outside - there is something I need to take care of first.” 

He agreed and we parted ways at the door, me walking opposite to him so as not to give too much away. 

There was a lock on the stall door but it didn’t want to work, so I settled for leaning back on the toilet and pushing against the door with my feet. My legs were long enough for it anyway. I pulled an e-cig case from my small satchel and unzipped it, pulling out my laptop for a solid working surface. I broke, lit, and loaded all in about two minutes – I was taking my time today. 

Then, I breathed deeply, feeling the needle penetrate my skin, and prayed I’d found a vein. Pulling back, I saw the blood fill the tube and pushed back in, feeling a sickening sense of pressure around my forearm. I pulled back again and pushed forward and breathed in a sigh of relief because I could feel it already, coursing through me like a plague. It was the sweet melody of my salvation, alone in a high school bathroom, shooting heroin at 4 in the afternoon on a Monday. I sat there, reclining on the toilet seat with a needle sticking out of my arm and a piece of theraband around it, just breathing. No one walked in – everyone was already gone and clubs didn’t meet on Monday. 

And then I remembered Mello, waiting for me outside with his motorbike. Suddenly, I was up and out the door, speed walking towards the exit of the school and pulling my orange tinted goggles out of my messenger bag – it I wasn’t going to have a helmet, I might as well have a pair of goggles. 

When I opened the front doors of the school, there he was – standing just outside of the gates with a beautiful red motorbike and black helmet, resting in that place just between his ribs and hips that I so longed for my head to belong. When I came up, snapping my goggles into place on the top of my head, he was smiling like an angel in the middle of the day, in love with the feeling of sunlight and shamelessly in love with the people of the world. I hoped that is what he was feeling. 

He put his helmet on, mounting his bike with a slick movement, the khaki of his school pants looking so out of place and I imagined we must look a little rebellious.   
I thought back to the needle in my arm. 

He gave me his hand, silently inviting me onto his motorbike with him. Straddling his hips, I joined him and he took my hands, wrapping my arms around his waist.

“I told you that you would have to hold on tight, ya?” 

And he sped off through the city streets, careless and free willed. The sun was already starting to set in the distance, already well into the winter. But it wasn’t cold in this moment; Mello wearing a red jacket over his school blazer. I was wearing my own army green one and I thought we must look like Christmas. But was that really relevant? Because something so much bigger was going on here. Something was in the making – like a friendship but so much more gratifying – something I had never felt before (as if I had ever known a friend either). This was the size of the world itself. He was the ocean and I was the storm, raging ahead into the night to destroy passions and futures and the belief that this couldn’t be – shouldn’t be. Mello; he had the seas at his disposal, captured in his eyes. The waves were crashing now, taking me with them, washing me on the sands of beaches. My chest was tight and my eyes were closed, my arms around his waist and cheek to his back. And then, opening my eyes, I saw the world going by like a million streaks of light. The car horns were all stopping passengers and we were mellifluous. For a moment, I was clean and I was sober but that wasn’t quite true, though I thought it was. But I was sober in my head then and I felt amazing. We were the wind in autumn and we were flowers in spring – something beautiful and pure and completely illegal. But we made the rules for just a moment. We were Gods.


	7. Every Day She Sits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is only a waiting game.

“I feel heavy when I write this – like something is eating my heart, I feel sick to my stomach. Im trying to resist, to keep myself alive for what little time I have left – I don’t know if this next time will be the last but I feel like it is approaching quickly…” 3/14/16

 

If I was broken, would I even be worth fixing? Would it be the end of the pattern – the cycle – if I were to one day call it quits and hit an extra bit? Who would miss me, I thought. Would there be a future for this boy, this 18 year old drug addict? If there wasn’t a future anyway, why go on? But thinking back to the boy on the motorcycle, the one with whom I had held faith for just a moment, I thought differently. We had taken the turnpike at 5 o’clock traffic and weaved in and out of the screaming patrons as we raced through Holland Tunnel. My face had been so warm next to him, my fragile and sickly body so warm for once next to that of another human. It was my own personal fantasy – to run away from the hell I had lived in for so long – and with someone else; that was something I hadn’t even dared to dream about. It was something that I didn’t think was possible. 

But there he stood, the next day after school, waiting for me with his motorbike and black helmet and then again the day after that, each time wearing the same tireless smile on his face. It was something I was pretty sure I had never seen him show to anyone else. I alone was the light in his day, it seemed, and he too was mine, next to the heroin that sat in my dresser drawer or in my backpack. 

It was raining today though, not ideal weather to ride a motorbike in, and Mello had walked. But when we looked out at the street in front of us, still standing on the steps of the school, I knew that Mello didn’t want to make his way home. 

Rain for me, was something special. It meant that the world was growing, as was I. It meant that things were alive and they were moving on about their lives just like I was doing. Although – I thought back to lunch – it didn’t seem like I was really moving on from this like I had hoped I’d be able to do. But rain was only temporary and so was addiction. Rain falls and rises again and again, in the same circle that I am stuck in. 

But maybe one day it would just rise and never fall again. 

I reached a clammy hand out for Mello’s wrist and he looked at me, blue eyes wide. 

“There is someone I want you to meet.” I whispered into the grey world around us, looking up at my apartment, just across the street. Raising an umbrella, we started across the street, our shoes splashing in the water that had pooled around the sidewalk. The headlights of cars illuminated our steps in the midafternoon and I briefly wondered if it would start snowing tonight.

I led Mello up the rickety stairs to my apartment, the smell of the carpet overwhelming on such a wet and rainy day. I could see Mello wrinkle his nose, but he didn’t say anything, just followed behind me. Digging my keys out of my pocket at I continued forward, I heard them jingle and found myself fingering the vile attached to them. It was a subconscious act at this point, but I knew that I would have to be leaving Mello soon, in favor of solitude. That was, after all, where I belonged. 

“Maman?” I called, opening the door. “Maman i ramené à la maison un ami.” I knew that she wasn’t really hearing me, but I said it anyway. My kitchen table was bare when I walked in, but there was a pile of mail sitting in front of the door. I picked it up, setting it on the table, and watched as Mello looked around my tiny apartment. 

“Je maison.” Spreading my arms, I invited him in. I looked to my left and saw my arm in vivid colors – black and blue spread up my forearm and I immediately snapped them back to my body. He didn’t seem to notice though, busy taking in his surroundings. 

I have to admit – there was a slight amount of shame that I felt, Mello seeing my house in the shape that it was. It wasn’t messy – no it wasn’t that. It was just bare and old – dirty and in need of repair. The walls were smoke stained and water damaged and there weren’t pulls on half the drawers. The ceiling sagged and the floor was tilted. Never the less, he smiled at me, that beautiful and amazing, honest smile. 

“So who did you want me to meet?” He asked me, walking closer. A smile nearly reaching my eyes, I walked over to the couch, kneeling beside my mother’s resting form.   
She was laying there, blanket draped across her lap and eyes unfocused, a half empty bottle of Valium sitting on the coffee table. 

“Maman? Sil vous plait, Maman. C’est mon ami, Mello.” Her eyes briefly came into focus, looking around the room, confused. 

“Mail?” She asked me, voice soft and plain, emotionless. 

“Oui. Et Mello.”

“Mello.” She repeated. I heard footsteps approaching from the side, before I saw Mello kneel beside me, reaching a hand out to grasp that of my mother. 

“Salut, Madame.” 

And then she closed her eyes, a smile gracing her lips unlike one that I have seen since my childhood and I could see her gently squeeze Mello’s hands. It seemed that he truly was an angel in human form, I thought. He looked to me with his endlessly blue eyes.

“What is it?”

“Valium.”

There is silence now, while I look into my mother’s vacant eyes and Mello holds her hand in a kind of way that I find myself wishing he would hold mine. The room is cold and I am   
shivering in it, but we can’t pay for heating so the only source is the space heater in the corner. I will reiterate – I live in New York.

“It is a shame.” He says, breaking my train of thought and inner monologue. “It always hurts to watch the ones that we love succumb to the love of something else – something that will never really love them back nor accept them wholly.”

“Do you know someone who –” 

“No.” He stops me suddenly, looking down to the hand that is held in his own. “My father.” There is a pause where he breaths in deeply and his chest shivers. “He is part of a…group. We moved here because it is illegal to belong to one where we are from.”

“So they are violent then?” I ask and he nods his head. There is a desperate desire in my heart to console him but I don’t – that would be weird, wouldn’t it? I am a man, am I not? But that hasn’t changed my heart’s desires in the past, now has it? No, and it didn’t change the fact that I rested my hand atop the one that caressed my mother’s and pulled it aside, caressing my own cheek. I closed my eyes and leaned into the touch. 

This was the first human hand to touch me in so very, very long and it felt like butterflies kissing my skin. And then he was there, on my lips as well, touching them so gingerly that it brought the butterflies to flutter about my stomach instead and warmth to rise to my cheeks. My mother, still blank faced, stared ahead of her – she didn’t even notice.  
“He would disapprove of this as well.” Mello mutters, just a second away from my mouth.

“What else does he disapprove of?” My eyes are still closed from the moments before. 

“Everything.” He pauses then chuckles cynically to himself. “Especially me.”

“Is he a Nazi?” I say jokingly, opening my eyes. But I want to shut them again because the Cherub boy in front of me suddenly looks sad and I am confused, because what have I said to upset him so?

“No, but close.” I stand, taking his hand with me, never having let go of it in the first place. Following me without question, I lead him into my bedroom, and to the window,   
opening it and facing the school, the pouring rain that I hope will turn into snow. I face the world whole heartedly. 

“I don’t agree with him though.” Mello says from beside me.

“I know. After all,” I look at him, smiling now. “You are the one that kissed me.”

“Did not!”

I just smile, continuing to stare out the window. The world below us is beautiful and there are flakes of snow starting to scatter themselves within the falling rain. There are people milling about in their goulashes and umbrellas, women wearing their designer rain coats. It is winter, the dying season for so many creatures, but this year- not for me. This is my living season – the time that I came to life, even if it was just for a little while. I came back from the darkness, grasped for the light and caught it. 

I didn’t want to lose this moment in the falling rain and snow. I didn’t want this moment to slip through my fingers, so I grasped his hand in mine, raising it towards my lips and kissing his knuckles. My face was flushed from the cold running through the window, and my cheeks felt warm from the human contact. It was so foreign and yet it felt so familiar. He was the kiss of my mother or the hug of a friend in my childhood. Everything was beautiful.

At least, just for today.


End file.
